


Moonchanged

by Runewif (Wynja2007)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Creatures, Gen, Teitho Fanfiction Contest, Wargs, Werewargs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:19:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5441543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynja2007/pseuds/Runewif
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas wakes to find himself injured in the halls of Beorn the Skinchanger and as he pieces together the events missing from his memory, he has to face up to the possibility that perhaps he will never be the same again...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moonchanged

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the November Teitho challenge 'Creatures' where it didn't place.

The first thing Legolas became aware of was a tickling sensation on his face. 

He resisted the urge to swipe away whatever was annoying him while he assessed himself. His memories were fogged, dark, but a vague recollection of teeth and blood and pain alarmed him… Yes. When he focussed his senses, he could feel the throb and ache of an injury around his left thigh, a sharp, smaller pain, a twin stabbing sensation, from where his neck and shoulder joined. Veteran of enough battles to know the clean slice of a blade when he felt one, he realised these injuries were different, that they had a rougher, more ragged feel to them.

An animal attack, then? And now an animal’s whiskers were tickling his chin?

He opened his eyes, trying to summon up the will to move quickly if necessary…

And smiled as the curious face and mobile whiskers of a small white mouse looked back at him.

‘I do not know, friend mouse, what your intentions are, but I should like to sit up and I fear discommoding you if I try. Nor do I know whether you have any siblings wandering around and I would dislike harming you or they in the process. May I please move?’

Came a big, rough, growl of a laugh and a large hand moved into Legolas’ line of sight. It was more of a paw, really, large and broad with stubby, work-worn fingers, but still dextrous enough to gently scoop the mouse from his face without harming it or touching him.

‘So, you are awake, Goldenhead, and you have some manners at least. My little friends are curious creatures, and fearless, as you see, of men and elves alike. You can move now.’

‘I am grateful. And… I have been injured and you helped me? For that, also, my thanks.’ 

Legolas found the strength to push himself up from his prone position, his attention claimed by the man whose big hand had moved the mouse. 

He was a being of huge stature, easily head and shoulders taller than the elf, and he had a broad and brawny frame with bunching, powerful muscles and a huge, shaggy head of hair boasting exuberant side whiskers. There was something about his face, a breadth to the brow and bridge of the nose that did not seem quite human. His gruff voice was slow and even.

‘By rights I should have killed you already to spare you pain, but you are a fighter and so, I will let you fight; you might beat it, if you are lucky. But I warn you; harm any innocents and I will not spare you. Do you understand?’

‘No, not really. But I should prefer it if you did not kill me, Master... I assure you, I am not in the habit of harming innocents. I am Legolas Thranduilion, and I was... that is, my journey…’

He felt for the reason he had been travelling, but it eluded him, and that was a worry.

‘Beorn is my name,’ the big man said. ‘And that you do not know it surprises me.’

‘Your name is known,’ Legolas said. ‘There are some who think you a legend, a mythical creature... but my father has long said the western borders of our realm are guarded by something – someone – exempt from our laws and governance, and that we must be grateful for any allies in these times...’

What had he been doing? Why did he not know?

‘I found you at the edge of the mountains. There were three dead creatures around you and a fourth warg was attacking. Your bow was beneath you, your knives in your hands. I carried you back. None of your companions survived.’

‘I recall no companions…’

‘Then did three wargs die by one pair of hands? There were no arrows in the carcasses. I do not mind that they die, for they kill too much.’

‘My bow and my knives, they are my preferred weapons. But I have experience of fighting without them, Master Beorn, if I must, and we have to fight hard to survive our forest.’

Beorn stared at him for a long moment and then laughed, a deep, throaty guffaw that almost threatened to shake the house. 

‘Yes, you are no Noldo princeling, drilled in sword and chivalry; you are a wild creature of your forests, stuffed into the shell and clothes of an elf prince. And you are hungry and thirsty. Come, sit, eat.’

Beorn extended an arm and hauled Legolas to his feet, bracing his shoulder. The prince tried not to recoil; he did not like intrusions into his personal space. But his instincts, usually good, sensed no threat from Beorn, although he would hardly have said the big man was not dangerous in his own way.

It was only as the prince staggered to the table that he realised how much he was in need of Beorn’s supporting arm; his leg would not bear his weight. Biting back a sigh, he lowered himself onto a stool at the table, trying not to panic at the sense of helplessness that rose up in him. He was a hunter-warrior-prince, strong and fast-thinking, needing to rely on no-one.

Except at the moment, he was as weak as… as the kitten that wandered easily between the clutter on the table. It wove between flagons and beakers, skirting the bread and pausing to sniff at the butter before continuing down to bump its head against Beorn’s hand. The big man smiled, the skin at the sides of his eyes crinkling as he tickled the kitten’s ear. ‘Keep your paws out of the butter, little thing. We have a guest who might dislike fur in the food, hmm?’ He glanced down at the guest in question. ‘Do you like animals, prince?’

‘I do – unless they are trying to kill me,’ he said. 

‘Eat. Drink. You need strength to fight what is to come.’

‘What is to come, Beorn? Earlier, you said you should have killed me…? I am glad you did not, but I don’t understand…?’

‘Do you know the warg that bit you? Remember it?’

‘No… no, I recall nothing of anything much, not before waking here…’

‘It may return to you in time. But the eyes… what colour eyes did it have? That is what we need to know.’

Legolas shook his head. ‘I do not remember.’

He saw Beorn look curiously at him as he pushed cheese, bread, butter and honey towards him before filling a flagon with milk and sliding that, too across the table.

‘Eat, again I say. And drink. There is no lack. Sate yourself. Gorge on the blessings of Yavanna’s good works.’

‘My gratitude.’ 

To his surprise, he found himself to be ravenously hungry and only his innate sense of decorum prevented him from falling on the food as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. He ate, and ate, and there seemed to be no end of his appetite. Beorn refilled the flagon and watched him feast, a hint of a smile at the edges of his eyes.

‘Your pardon,’ Legolas said, suddenly realised he had been eating in silence for a very long time. ‘All is excellent, and your generosity…’

Beorn waved his thanks away. 

‘If any stories of me have reached you in your palace, you will know I am not naturally generous, nor over-fond of guests. You killed three wargs, three murderous beasts that now will not come for my cattle or my horses or for other lives.’

‘Still, I am greatly in your debt.’

‘Yes,’ Beorn said. ‘You are.’

*

When Legolas finally could eat no more, he pushed back from the table with a sigh. The kitten came across and rubbed its head against his hand.

‘Cerridwen likes you. That is a good sign.’ Beorn said. ‘I will go out shortly. Make use of all you find; eat, drink, sleep if you wish. But do not leave the house, that is all I ask. As well as horses and cats and mice, I have bees and cattle and dogs. The dogs will not let you leave unless I tell them, and so it is better you do not try.’

‘Beorn, for your hospitality, I am grateful, but this sounds as if I am a prisoner...’

The big man laughed, great, gusting huffs of humour.

‘No, I simply wish to keep something out, not to keep you in! You will be safer.’

‘Then, of course, I shall. And yet you are going out?’

‘Do not fear for me.’ Beorn gave a secret smile. ‘I will be quite safe. As will you, if you keep indoors.’

Before he left, Beorn helped Legolas back to his bed and put a jug of water and a cup where he could reach. ‘For if you need a drink before you can move,’ he had said. ‘I will lock the door, not to keep you in, as I say, but to keep the night out.’

 

Legolas lay back and took stock. The mattress beneath him was soft, the pillows accommodating, the covers adequate. But his leg throbbed uncomfortably and his neck hurt. He turned his attention inwards, willing the pain to reduce, reminding himself that he was an elf, he healed swiftly, and there would come a point where the discomfort would stop...

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, a long, deliberate breath, and tried to go remember what had happened. It took several breaths before he could find the right sense of calm, but eventually he found his way into the fractured recollections of the events that had brought him here...

The sky dark, inky black, speckled with mithril star points and a huge moon gracing the heavens. The air crisp and clean, cold and fresh, but tainted by an animal aroma that alerted him and his hand was reaching for his bow and an arrow before he remembered the quiver was empty, the arrows spent against an orc pack several hours previously. Knives, then, and they were in his hands just as he registered the dark snarl from somewhere behind him. He extended his perceptions, hearing a tiny noise from the side as well in the shadows cast by the rise of rock, and realised whatever had made the growl was not alone; he was flanked as well as followed, which meant the attack would not come from behind, but either ahead or to the left…

The air to his left changed, and he jumped to meet it, knives out. A wall of fur and muscle met him, he smelled hot, carrion breath and plunged the knife into the body pressing against him, hearing the animal yelp and feeling it try to pull away with grim satisfaction. Breath on his right side; he spun, arcing the second dagger, and cut the throat of another of the creatures – wargs, huge wolf-like beasts with bright red eyes… 

He buckled as a heavy weight fell on him, a third warg, and he only just got his knee under him in time as he landed to push up and throw the beast off, burying the knife deep into its ribs first… its claws raked his thigh, gouging deeply, and as he tried to move found another of the beasts glaring down at him, ripping a growl and holding him in its emerald gaze before its jaws reached slowly and delicately for his throat and he barely managed to turn and present his shoulder, hunching up protectively as he raised the knife...

He came out of the memory with a start. Green eyes. He would remember… how had he forgotten the bright malice of that gaze? 

But there was more to the tale, something... his memory was confused still, fuzzy... by rights, had he planned to go beyond the edge of the forest, he should have had a guard, two hunters at the least; for while sure of his strength, it was standard, in these days, not to journey alone, so what of his companions...?

And what of Beorn? The stories about him were hardly to be credited, fireside tales of a strange creature, half-Man, half-bear, who could change his shape at will and roam his lands in a different skin... the naneths told the tale to their elflings, and then when they grew up, told them not to be silly, it was just stories... but those who had the guard out here, towards the western edge of the forest spoke of a bear that sometimes would patrol the edge of the wood... more than once, a troop would report its presence, a harbinger, preceding wargs or orcs who were trying more often now to encroach on the forest...

Without Beorn’s help, Legolas might well be dead by now.

Yet the riddle of Beorn’s words worried him; there might yet be death ahead of him, and he could not remember enough of what happened to inform his guesses for the future...

Reverie swooped down while he was still trying to make sense of the mystery, bearing him off to a blessed relief from pain...

*

Memory returned as he started up from a nightmare vision, his nictitating eyelids flickering away, his hand clutching his heart to stop it beating out of his chest.

‘Good morning,’ Beorn’s big, slow voice said from somewhere beyond sight. ‘It is time you woke; for the last ten minutes you have been muttering and protesting in your sleep.’

‘I... forgive me, it...’

‘What did you dream? Did you see the eyes?’

‘I remembered the eyes.’ Legolas reached for the flagon of water and drank. ‘They were green, the brightest of greens. But the others, the wargs I killed, they had red eyes. The green-eyed one bit me and then retreated, I think...’

Beorn nodded. 

‘There is both good news and bad in that, Elf-prince. Your dreams?’

‘I... I thought I had been attacked by orcs, but I was alone when the wargs attacked, and there were my Silvan guards, both dead...’

‘Can you get up unaided? There is something you should see.’

Still weak, nevertheless he felt steadier on his feet, the wound to his thigh aching rather than throbbing, and his head swam less when he tried to walk. 

‘Outside. It is not far, but nor is it very near.’

Beorn brought one of his ponies and watched as Legolas greeted the animal, asked for its permission to ride. Getting onto its back was not easy, injured as Legolas was, but he managed, grateful not to have to walk the mile or so across Beorn’s pastures and out into the rougher land beyond.

‘You should dismount now,’ Beorn said. ‘Behind the shelter of the rocks, there.’

‘What is?’

‘Go and see.’

Legolas slid off the pony and limped across to the little ridge Beorn had pointed out to him. Trepidation filling him, still he was shocked at what he saw and fell to his knees; the bodies of his fallen companions, their remains mauled and damaged, one with his throat slit, the other with his ribs sliced open.

Behind his tears he said the prayers to honour them, spoke their names and the courage of their service so that the Valar would hear, and have pity on their broken bodies, and as he prayed, the memories filled in around him, like the tide creeping in.

Presently, when he was done with weeping, and prayers, he heard Beorn approach.

‘I remember, Beorn, I... a visit to Imladris. I decided to stay beyond the time intended, and sent them back to tell my father, but that was weeks ago... yet they are newly dead? How can that be?’

For the present he avoided the horrible coincidence of one of them with his throat cut, the other with a knife wound to his side...

‘They died the night you were attacked, that is plain,’ Beorn said. ‘They were your friends?’

‘Perhaps not friends, but I knew them well. This one, Bronaben. He leaves a wife, two elflings. The other, Carandoldaer, he had the favour of the king.’

‘Your king will have to find a new favourite, then. I am sorry you lost your companions. I found them where I found you.’

‘I do not understand,’ Legolas said, looking up at Beorn. ‘They were slain by blades, but there are other marks here – old bite marks, like to those wargs’ teeth make... but...’

‘There is a new evil abroad. Or else an old one, awoken again, changed, perhaps. You have heard of Draugluin, Carcharoth, the werewolves...’

‘Gaurhoth!’ Legolas exclaimed. ‘But these were wargs, not things in wolf-form...’

‘No, they were in warg form, and that is cause for great concern, for wargs have more cunning, more intelligence than mere wolves. And one there is, with green eyes, its bite changes you, makes you like to itself. I think it is probable that the warg found your friends before ever they left the mountains, and it turned them and made them part of its pack. The third warg had been a man, once. His body I have burned, after the way of his kind, where he fell.’

Beorn paused to give Legolas time to comprehend, but the elf was shaking his head and frowning. Beorn offered the only comfort he could think of.

‘You fought well, to despatch so many. Your friends, they were not elves when they died, nor for a long time before, and all done during those days will not be held against them. Now they are elves again, and I heard you pray over their bodies, they are cleansed now. What do you do with your dead?’

‘In the forest, we inter them beneath their favourite trees. Our bodies being less dense than those of Man, we soon become dust... we do not like to burn our dead, unless we have no choice; the Silvan heart finds it disrespectful. I would like to raise a cairn, if you will permit it.’

‘I will help; it will be done faster.’

*

Dusk was falling as Legolas dismounted the pony and thanked it for its services. He was weary, more weary than elf should be, but he was wounded and grieving and heartsick, still bewildered at the gaps in his memory, still sorrowing the loss of his companions, even though he could not remember any more about them than he had told Beorn already.

‘Moonrise is late tonight,’ Beorn said. ‘You may thank the Valar for that, since it means you have a few more hours’ grace.’

‘I don’t understand...’

‘The bite of the green-eyed warg fills your blood with a poison, a venom that does not kill you or make you sick. But when the moon shines down on you, it changes in your veins, and you become altered, becoming like to the beast that bit you. For the duration of the moonlight, you are moonchanged. At first you can change back, if you are sufficiently determined. But after a few days, or weeks, the venom takes over and you become fixed until death. That is what happened to your friends.’

‘What...? No, it cannot be, that is...’

‘Finally, you begin to understand. You were too quiet, at the burial, you heard the words and saw but did not see. Now do you see?’

‘I... my guard became wargs, and turned back into elves, once they were dead?’

‘Dead, and after the moon had gone from them. That is not all. You were bitten.’

‘No, I...’ Legolas remembered the wound at the junction of his shoulder and neck, its twin throbbing points. ‘I suppose I was. And you think I will...will turn into one of those...?’

Beorn nodded.

‘If it had been hungry, it would have eaten you, but it wanted you changed. Find the beast that bit you, slay it and drink its blood, then that will counteract the taint in your own blood. But you must do so quickly, before another night and day is done, or the changes will be permanent.’ Beorn put his hand under Legolas’ arm, helped him back towards the house. ‘And if that happens, princeling, I will not let you leave my lands alive.’

*

In the great hall, Beorn served food.

‘You need to build your strength, Goldenhead. You have a long night before you. When it grows near moonrise we will go outside. The werewarg will call to you, once the moon is up, and then we will see what we will see. If you change, as I think you will, a beast will awaken in your fëa all your instincts will be to rend, to kill, to feel the hot blood running over your jaws; do not give in to it, not on my lands, for if you do, if you harm the least of my creatures, I will rip the throat out of you, prince or not, do you hear me?’

‘Yes,’ Legolas said. ‘Although I do not see how you could.’

‘Do not pretend ignorance of what I am.’ Beorn said with a growl. ‘We will speak plainly. I know what this feels like, to shed the skin and release the beast... the senses are enhanced, smells have colour, hearing has shape, sight comes with a pinpoint sharpness; you are stronger, swifter, wilder...’

‘I am a wood-elf, Master Beorn; compared to Men, I am those things already.’

Beorn gave a rough, gruff chuckle that rumbled around in his chest like thunder.

‘You are that, and half-wild under those pretty manners of yours... well, then you will not be distracted so easily. Remember your true-self is not the beast; you are a child of Ilúvatar, with a fëa and a conscience... when you hear the call of the werewarg, go. It will want to hunt, and take you along with the rest of its pack. It will not be expecting you to turn and attack it, and by tomorrow, the venom will be eating at your heart and mind; you have this one chance, this one night to prevent yourself being moonchanged forever.’

*

After eating, Legolas laid down in his bed and tried to rest. Memory was returning now, too quickly, too swiftly, images and pictures of time spent at Imladris; easy  
friendship with the sons of Elrond, a more awkward acquaintance with Arwen... and Elrond kindly inviting him to stay until after the winter storms, Legolas sending the guards home with word... well, word would not have reached his father, would he already be thinking them lost?

Nothing he could do about that now. Besides, by tomorrow, his father might really have cause to grieve...

‘Beorn,’ he said to the roof of the hall, ‘if it goes badly tonight, if I... tell my father wargs killed us. It will mostly be the truth, even though I killed... I killed Bronaben and Carandoldaer...’

‘No, princeling. You set them free.’

Legolas tried to hold on to that thought as he found reverie sloshing over him like rough waves...

...to wake, finding himself shaken, Beorn leaning over him.

‘It’s time. Come.’

Beorn led the way out into the dark night, securing the door to the hall and setting off across his pastures at a long lope that Legolas struggled to match; his leg was stiff, sore, but no longer throbbing and aching with every step.

At the boundary, Beorn stopped and indicated a piled stack of stones.

‘This cairn marks the edge of my lands. You should leave your garments here; you would not want to tear your pretty clothes when you change.’

Legolas winged up an eyebrow but stripped, slinging his weapons back in place with a shrug as Beorn looked a question at him. But the fact was, he felt more naked without his bow and knives than without his breeches.

‘I will leave you now,’ Beorn said. ‘The moon is creeping towards the sky and soon we will see. But I shall not be far. Remember who you are, Goldenhead, and do not let it be taken from you, or your life is certainly forfeit.’

‘Should I lose myself, Beorn, my thanks, first, for your aid...’

Beorn growled and stalked off into the shadowed night, leaving Legolas alone in the darkness. 

The earth was cool and damp under his feet, the grass insinuating itself between his toes in small, cold slivers. He could smell the pungent fragrance released  
when his weight had crushed it.

...where his weight had crushed it? But he had no weight, he who ran over snow without even disturbing the crystals...

He felt a solidity coalesce inside of him, a dark strength coiling in his muscles as he connected to the dense earth in ways he never had before. An unwinding of pure power, firing his blood, beating faster his heart as with a mithril glow, the edge of the sky brightened and the moon sailed up into view to bathe all the world in silver milk.

From somewhere beyond the horizon rose a sound, a howl into the night. Filled with longing, it gave voice to the silvered night and reached right down beyond the limits of his fëa to tug at an undiscovered darkness lurking there, twined around his heart.

His throat expanded and he threw back his head to let out a wordless cry. All his breath, all his being went into it and as the sound grew, it changed, taking him with it while the moon caressed him and sang to his infected blood.

Legolas grew heavier still, his muscles growing, his bones lengthening and strengthening. His hair rippled, and along the ridge of his spine, sprouts of golden threads sprang from his skin, spreading across his shoulders and his chest, his face and arms, his belly and thighs until he was swathed in silken gold. The bones of his face ached as his jaws changed, pulled outwards and narrowed into a semi-lupine muzzle. All at once, his senses caught up with the external changes, and scents sprang into life, his already acute eyes sharpened to pinpoint precision, the range of sounds he could hear swelled and extended until he was trembling with overload, hungry, greedy for more as he felt his fingers stretch, he rolled up onto his toes to feel his heels lengthen back...

...no!

From somewhere he felt the thought, the opposition of his mind.

No, he was a creation of Ilúvatar, not a creature of the moon.

Gradually, Legolas reasserted himself, slowed the changes in his body and wondered, briefly, what he looked like... a chimera, half-elf, half-warg, with sharp, snapping jaws and claws for nails, strange combinations of bone and sinew and muscle and over it all, a shaggy pelt of gold.

The animal inside him whimpered, and retreated, slinking back as the howl split the night again. This time, lifting his head and sniffing, Legolas caught the scent of it on the air, and opened his throat to mourn an answering call before loping off towards the echoes of the sound.

Legoloas ran as a biped, arms pumping, long legs reaching and extending, a new spring in his gait from the elongations to his feet and the power of bouncing off his toes, and the ground fled away beneath his feet. He lost track of how far, how long he ran across the blue and silver and grey landscape, but eventually the terrain changed beneath his feet, becoming rougher, steeper, more rugged.

The howl grew nearer and he stopped to answer, standing tall on a ridge of rock and looking out after he had stopped. There, on the horizon, two hills over, the shadow-shape of a wolf, or a warg, outlined on the hill. As he watched, it turned towards him to lift its muzzle and keen its moonsong into the sky, replying to him this time, responding and Legolas felt the call throb in his blood...

With an answering bark he sprang away towards the hilltop.

*

The smells of the rocky terrain were loud in his nose, pine mingled with dry earth mingled with old spoor and over it the hot, somehow enticing scent of the warg. Other scents vied for notice, a rough, doggy smell and from beyond, drifting across, a much bigger flavour in the air (a part of him marvelled at this new way of perceiving scent) which somehow was ponderously powerful, grave and deadly...

He paused in his running and looked around, scanning the horizon swiftly. There, on the ridge from which he had spotted the warg, was the outline of an enormous bear standing on its hind legs and staring out across the moonscape.

A guttural, feral snarl grew in his throat as the animal in him recoiled from the scent and the shape, his muscles tensed, responding to the wild instinct to run, to flee...

No.

He was not an animal, a beast, he was a creation of Ilúvatar and if he ran, it was because he wished to, and so, as he turned and leapt across the land once more, he focussed on himself, on Legolas, remembering his family, his friends, his life in the Greenwood, at every stride reinforcing the message that he was a child of the forest, not a beast of the night.

Legolas was aware of the scent first, the sounds second, wary and wild and dangerous, and he slowed his strides to locate these new arrivals; one to the left, two to the right, wargs pacing him. Catching a glint of yellow eyes, he fought the instinct to relax; they were ordinary wargs, then, if there was such a thing, not moonchanged men or elves with red eyes burning, not the werewarg with the power in its blood to change innocents into copies of itself.

They paced him, keeping their distance, equally wary, and he wondered if they had been expecting him, or something not quite like him... he had heard tales that the wargs of the Misty Mountains could communicate with each other, but he, in his half-changed state, was not aware of any language in the short and snapping barks and growls the wargs exchanged.

...he could have his bow unslung in a heartbeat, taking down the front runner on the right, probably fouling the second’s path, then his knives, one for each of them, straight between the eyes...

...and what of the werewarg? For he had the sense that these three were bringing him in, acting as escort. Killing his honour guard wouldn’t be a good way to get close to the leader, would it?

A short, yelping howl from close at hand; the werewarg was on a low mound ahead and suddenly the flanking wargs changed order, closing in, one moving close behind him, the others almost within reach of his long, talon-fingered arms. Legolas slowed and came to a halt, looking up at the werewarg. Eyes of a sharp, toxic green stared down out of a deadly dark mask, the snout wrinkled back to reveal monstrous teeth in a semi-snarl as the beast sniffed the air. From here, it looked gigantic, swamping him, its whole massive body simply a propulsion mechanism for that double row of teeth. Claws curved like scythe blades finished the paws and the entirety of the creature carried with it an air of menace that somehow called to the animal Legolas could feel stirring in his mind. He quelled it, quelled his fear and began to climb the mound, eyes on the green poison gaze, not wavering.

He stopped a few feet away where he could see all of it, a black-pelted wolf monster, its shoulders as high as his, a thick coat shaggy over the forequarters. It looked down, growling low in its throat.

Perhaps he was meant to answer, to know the speech, perhaps he had stopped the change before he had altered enough to develop understanding. But it seemed a fair guess that the werewarg had been expecting him fully changed, and this semi-state was displeasing, perhaps alarming.

It turned to face him, the huge head as long as his torso, the toxic green eyes cautious. It lifted its muzzle and sniffed at him, breathed in his scent, walked around him pacing and Legolas closed his eyes and forced himself to stand still, to wait, although the animal in him wanted to howl and run, and the elf in him wanted to reach for his knives...

He made himself stand.

The werewarg finished its inspection and backed away, eyeing him still. Beorn’s words came back to him; that he had to kill this beast and drink its blood if he wanted to revert to his elvish self again, if he did not want to become a deadly beast, if he did not want to die at Beorn’s hand.

But not yet. There was no trust between them yet, and while he did not want to be trusted by this monster, still, he wanted to wait until it was a little less wary.  
It snarled, snapping orders, and turned away to lope down the far side of the mound, two of the three wargs following, the last nudging Legolas with its cold nose and waiting for him to follow.

He turned and bared his teeth at the warg, permitting himself to growl deep in his throat and ran off after the others.

*

The shepherd had no chance against the wargs, and the panicked bleating of the flock sent waves of distress through Legolas as a fat ewe was brought down after a few second’s hopeless struggle. The werewarg fed first, snarling over its kill, and the wargs slunk off to scavenge, Legolas feared, the body of the shepherd.

The smell of the blood and the warm, raw meat sang to him in ways he had never felt before, tugging at the animal within and dragging him near to the carcass. The werewarg looked up and drew back its lips in a silent snarl, its muzzle dripping with blood.

Legolas dropped down into a crouch, responding to a subservient whimper from the inner creature that still tried to control him. But while he listened and learned from its instinct, he repulsed its slavering need to gorge on the carcass...

The werewarg watched him with cautious green eyes as it continued to eat and he began slowly to approach the carcass, careful not to make eye contact with the creature. The green-eyed beast wrinkled its snout, but moved along to feed from the haunch of the kill, allowing Legolas access to the edge of the ripped-open sheep. At once repulsed and enticed, he steeled himself against the urgency of the beast in his blood, and made himself nip at the carcass while the werewarg continued to feed. A few moments more, trying not to feast wildly at the same time as struggling not to vomit up what he’d already ingested, and the leader of the pack settled, seemed to accept him.

Soon the other wargs would come over; there would not be a better chance...

Legolas rested a clawed hand on the sheep for purchase, making it look as if he was simply holding the meat still. The next second, he launched himself at the werewarg’s throat, locking his sharp and deadly teeth in its throat like a score of knives. It convulsed, yelped, tried to throw him off, to maul him, but his jaws locked and he felt the blood flowing free, drank it down as if his life depended upon it.

It probably did, but for the moment his senses swooned at the salt metal taste of the hot lifeblood and he sucked and drank greedily, the beast inside him hungry for it, the elf desperate for the cure it promised.

Growls and snarls and he felt the air change at his back as the other wargs raced to protect the pack leader. Legolas pushed upwards, forwards, trying to bury himself under the werewarg’s belly for protection, not quite fast enough to avoid lungings paw which raked him with burning speed even as he twisted out of reach. Teeth snapped at him from all directions and the green eyed creature kept fighting, shaking its head, bracing against the ground. Drink its blood and kill it, kill it and drink its blood... he didn’t have to drain its body, just... if he could reach his knife now...

But even as he moved the werewarg shook free and the wargs closed on him again...

A roar and a yelp as one was sent flying by a huge clawed paw, the two others backing off as the massive body of a huge bear inserted itself between Legolas and the wargs. Free now, he grabbed for his knives and went after the pack leader which was shuddering and snarling and staggering a few steps away. He took a run at it, and the werewarg leapt to meet him, the knives crossing and uncrossing across the remains of its throat to decapitate it.

The head rolled, the green eyes went dim, and Legolas dropped to the grass, exhausted.

* 

He woke cold and naked in daylight in the lee of Beorn’s boundary cairn, curled up like a wolf cub into as small a shape as he could make. Unwinding his limbs, he noted he had proper hands again, fingernails, although he was smeared and dotted with blood, his face stiff and his long hair stuck with it. He ached – how he ached, the echoes of the old wound in his thigh, but long and raking scratches on his arms and across his back stinging and smarting reminded him of the conflict of the night and he groaned as he got to his knees.

‘Your clothes are where you left them,’ a large, rough voice said and Legolas turned his head to see Beorn sitting nearby, staring out across the terrain. ‘But better not put your shirt on, some of your wounds are still wet.’

‘Wet.’ Legolas shook his head and reached for his breeches. ‘Am I...? Was I infected again?’

‘I think not. You drank the werewarg’s blood?’

‘Yes; I don’t know how much I needed...’

‘Just a mouthful is enough, they say. Personally, I think more is safer.’

‘It felt as if I drank it dry,’ Legolas said. ‘I didn’t want to stop. I disgust myself.’

‘It was the animal in you,’ Beorn nodded. ‘You did well, Goldenhead. If you are ready, let us go. Your wounds need washing.’

*

It felt like a very long march back to Beorn’s hall, and then he was not allowed inside until after moonrise. He bathed in a barrel, the cold water stinging his wounds and making his bones ache, but it was done, and once Beorn had seen him unchanged by the light of fair Ithil, he went inside the hall where food and drink were waiting.

‘It was you, Beorn, who killed the other wargs, was it not?’

‘No, it was a bear. Yes, it was me. Neither. Both.’ Beorn shrugged. ‘It is a pity about the shepherd, he was a friend of mine.’

‘I am sorry, I could not... did not know they would...’

‘I saw.’

Beorn fell silent, watching as Cerridwen the kitten trotted along the table again, all his attention on her as she trotted up to Legolas and sniffed him before head-butting his hand to get attention.

‘She likes you still. That is good, Goldenhead.’

Legolas stroked the little ginger head.

‘I do not see why.’

‘Because your blood is clean. She would not be so loving with a werewarg.’

The prince gave a sigh.

‘Thank you, that is a relief to know...’

‘Mind, I am still going to lock you in my cellar tonight, just in case.’

Legolas laughed, but Beorn’s eyes were deadly serious. The prince sobered, ducked his head.

‘Of course, whatever you deem best.’

‘And if you survive the night unchanged, I will see you safe to the edge of your forest.’

*

Two days later the dark trees of the Greenwood rose up in welcome ahead. Under the eaves, Legolas dismounted and thanked the pony with gentle courtesy. 

Beorn grinned at him, the expression on his unusual face looking little short of terrifying.

‘Farewell then, Goldenhead, carry the news of your losses home to your king. Be careful how you speak, though, of the other events you were caught up in.’

Legolas nodded.

‘And for your help, many thanks. Perhaps we will meet again, one day.’

‘Aye, perhaps.’

The forest swallowed him, but he feared nothing in there, not even after darkness fell; he belonged to the trees and they to him. Only the spiders were sometimes a danger, and his quiver was restocked with arrows, his knives were sharp and they knew to fear him.

Besides, he thought as he stripped off his clothes and slung them in his pack, as the moonlight fell on his silvered skin like a mouth of mercury, he was much faster than they were.

The gold strands of silken fur slinked out from his body, his limbs elongated and strengthened, and his face pulled forward into a quasi-lupine muzzle.

 _Much_ faster, these days.

**Author's Note:**

> In part inspired by Hawkwind's 'Steppenwolf'.


End file.
